


Finest Work

by ThereWillBeCubes



Category: Free!
Genre: AU, Drabble, M/M, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:36:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereWillBeCubes/pseuds/ThereWillBeCubes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haru only paints free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finest Work

**Author's Note:**

> already posted this on my writing blog, but I haven't updated in so long here thought I may as well.

-

  
“Haru?” he asks, looking up in surprise to see a familiar face, the door having opened without preamble.

  
Makoto had not seen the painter for days, not since he’d been feverishly trying to finish a ‘contract’ with the church. Haru’s lips would twist, and his tone turn bitter whenever he mentioned it; his art was lauded, celebrated, and Makoto felt terribly guilty for the pressure that had forced him to paint the ceiling of the chapel in his beautiful images. He never worked well under the whims of others, his art was meant to be free.

  
But the church had not liked their 'friendship’. Another word spoken with sarcastic lilt between them both, often in the quiet warmth of their bed. But if Haru wished to live through painting, they would have to be satisfied, they were told. Makoto expected him to turn them away; he didn’t care about the prestige, but he had agreed.

  
Haru stands in his doorway, wearing an old tunic and apron that is covered in paint and bits of plaster, hands still filthy, as if he’d just put down his brush. Maybe he had.

  
“It’s done,” he announces, stepping back out onto the sunlit stones of their garden path. Makoto blinks in surprise, rising from his seat.

 

He follows Haru out onto the street, the artist’s face giving away nothing. To the untrained eye he might look simply tired, shadows under his eyes, but Makoto can see the true fatigue in the drag of his shoulders, the slight dip of his chin as he walks. But he moves briskly, and Makoto is suddenly excited. Even if Haru hated the reasons, his work was always stunning to behold.

  
Their home is a long walk from the centre of the city, a part of town with sloping streets, houses with clothes strung between them and greenery spilling over the tiny balconies, the scent of woodsmoke and baking bread ever present. Haru liked living there for the anonymity, their home just another with sandy stone and tiny garden. Makoto loved it for the life; children running through the streets, playing in the summer showers, the old women that he greeted each day on his way to work, sewing by their front steps, sometimes plying him with freshly baked cookies and cakes.

  
The streets closer to the centre of the city were nothing like them; there were still people everywhere; where the looks their way were bright as the sun-coloured bricks at home, here they were cold, judging. Everyone carried themselves with an air of superiority, and the tall buildings felt menacing. Haru led him through, and Makoto resisted the urge to grab his hand, wishing he could feel the clear indifference he had for the staring people.

  
The sight of the chapel filled Makoto with restlessness; towering and white, pillars and fantastically carved stone looming over them all. It was beautiful, but what it’s presence meant for them both, for their friends, filled him always with unease and unhappiness.

  
Haru comes to a stop by the great wooden doors, looking his way. His eyes glint with that fierce freedom that makes his knees weak.

  
“You’ll be the first to see it,” he says, and there’s something else, something he’s not telling him, and Makoto needs to know now what he’s done. What he’s created.

  
Haru heavily opens the door leading to the main part of the chapel; as far as Makoto knew few had been allowed to see the work in progress, and Haru had been left to his own devices. Everyone knew he worked best without people breathing down his neck.  
There are still large cloths draped over the stone floors, a haphazard network of scaffolding with ladders and platforms for Haru to work on, day after day, painstakingly painting the vaulting ceiling

.  
His eyes sweep around as he meets Haru in the very centre of the room, drinking in the scenes of angels and humans in gardens, in the sky surrounded by clouds, framed by mountains. Scenes of dark-haired men entering the baptismal waters- Makoto realises that Haru has inserted himself here, a fond smile touching his cheeks.

  
It freezes in place. _Every_ face is familiar.

  
Makoto gapes, as the full meaning of what Haru has done sinks in. All around him, are the stunning images of angels and apostles, divine beings, otherworldly beings. And they all have their friend’s faces. Other 'friendships’; the angels in the garden, surrounded by animals and flowers, Rei and Nagisa, their wings tinged with canary and violet, faces painstakingly painted into such realistic expressions of joy Makoto feels himself smiling again despite his shock. And again, in the faces of cherubic angels, with hair of gold, fluttering around a larger man, cloaking him in flower petals, his violet eyes beholding them with admiration.

  
“You…”

  
There are more fierce depictions, too, the army of heaven, but the tall, proud beings are coloured sharp, biting red of hair and eye, heavy and dark with piercing turquoise stares. Already in the air above them are a pair with orange and silver hair, faces shining with determination.

  
“That’s- it’s-”

  
He falls silent as his eyes find the centre of the ceiling, heart stilling in his chest.

  
In the heart of the work is the image of an archangel, Makoto meeting his own green eyes, softened in an expression of such beautiful benevolence and kindness that his entire body warms just to behold it.

  
“Haru…”

  
Haru’s fingers, dry and flaking with paint, entwine with his as he stares at the likeness. The angel is dressed in simple white robes, but they only accentuate the beauty of his face and form; perfectly sculpted torso, arms, hands spread out in the universal expression of peace. Golden light halos his entire body, most intensely shining from behind his head, seeming to tint his soft, gentle smile. Makoto’s heart constricts. The ceiling was Haru’s finest work.

  
This place was where the most important religious decisions were made, where the services were held; watching above them all, were Haru’s creations, born of his heart. And it was beautiful.

  
“Haru-” he croaks, “what are they going to say-?”

  
He doesn’t need to look to see Haru’s smile.

  
“They told me to paint in service to a loving god,” he replies, “their god doesn’t love me.”

  
He squeezes Makoto’s hand, and their eyes meet. Haru’s eyes are incredibly, soft, tender. Makoto can feel his own fill with tears.

  
_But you do._

_-_

**Author's Note:**

> I might have recently watched Holding the Man and have a lot of feelings about the history of LGBTIA rights right now. particularly the role of the some religious organisations in Australia making things all the more harder for us.
> 
> writing blog; yanderayy.tumblr.com


End file.
